


Scottish Men

by wunderlichkind



Series: wunder's OtherOutlanderTales [1]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dragonfly in Amber, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-06-15 19:18:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15419787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wunderlichkind/pseuds/wunderlichkind
Summary: Claire comes back to Scotland on her own and meets Roger without Brianna. Their meeting takes a rather unexpected turn.





	Scottish Men

With every step she takes on Scottish ground, Claire is more convinced that coming back has been a bad idea. Even Brianna had sensed it. 

„What do you mean to find there, Mama? There’s no one left waiting for you.“

It’s true. They’re all gone – her family, the few friends she had. Reverend Wakefield. And Jamie.

It’s not the same, and she knows it. He never existed in this century - her century - but he was still a reality to her, bound to her own existence. Knowing she couldn’t return to him mattered little. He was never truly gone. Not to her. 

She stops herself from following that train of thought, the memories still painful even after twenty years and she can’t afford to have a mental breakdown right on the streets of Inverness. A part of her worries she’ll somehow be recognized, that people will eye her suspiciously, that they’ll remember the woman taken by the faeries.

She rounds a corner and sees it from afar – the manse still looks exactly as she remembers it from her last visit with the Wakefields. She clasps her purse tighter to her body, her mind flitting briefly to the list of names inside it and sets out at a quick pace again, determined to get through this.

The man greeting her at the door looks nothing like the wee lad from twenty years ago. Only his eyes give him away, the same deep green, alive with all the colours of the Highlands.  
„Can I help ye?“ he asks, and she is acutely aware of his inquisitive look while she assesses him herself.

_He’s definitely grown into a man._

An appreciative thought accompanies her first impression of his sheer size, his olive complexion, his dark hair just a little too long. His MacKenzie heritage is obvious. He towers over her, his strong shoulders and dark hair much like Dougal’s, the sharp edges in his face mirroring features she knows as well as her own, features she sees in her dreams at night, features she can never forget.

„I hate to start with a cliché, but god, you’ve grown, Roger!“ she says. It sounds too eager and cheery to her own ears, and she makes a conscious effort not to cringe.

She feels like he’s looking right through her, her glass face on full display again. _What is it about Scottish men?_

Quickly, she continues, „You _are_ Roger, correct?“ holding her hand out to him and smiling at his blush. „My name is Claire Randall, I was an old friend of the Reverend’s. When I last saw you, you were five years old.“

“Oh aye!” he exclaims, a grin of recognition breaking out on his features. 

He invites her in and they exchange pleasantries for a while, talking about her memories of the Reverend, his coping with cleaning up the house, of Frank.

She catches him looking at her several times, his tense posture and red eartips betraying him and she has to admit she’s flattered. It has been a while since she’s received this kind of attention (or since she noticed, at least).

It feels good, exciting even. The nervous twitching of his fingers against his corduroys presents her with flashes of large hands on her pale skin and she’s unable to tell whether her mind is drawing from memory or fantasy, leaving her slightly embarrassed with a pleasant buzzing under her skin.

He’s surprised she’s here. She can tell by his tentative questions. And honestly, she is too. Her earlier doubts come rushing back with little prompting. She should have stayed away, leave the past in the past, try and salvage the fragile peace of mind she’s achieved through the last twenty years.

She tells him a story about how she’s missed the Highlands, how they hold a special place in her heart, and there’s more truth in it than she would like to admit. But she also knows her return was triggered by Frank’s death, as much as by her homesickness for this place.

His eyes on her are unnerving. She feels scrutinized, looked right through and she has a hard time deciphering his looks. She believes there’s understanding, sympathy maybe - especially when he offers his help for whatever she might need during her stay.  
Other moments, there seem to be the tiniest traces of suspicion. And something else, beneath it. Something reminiscent of _lust_.

She is torn from her thoughts by his mention of Craigh Na Dun and it surprises her so much, she jumps a little, knocking his whisky glass over. „Oh god, I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean...“, she rambles, flustered, quickly grabbing a napkin from the dresser nearby and bending down to wipe off his shoes.

„Ye really don’t have to...“ he stutters when she starts patting down his trousers, blushing fiercely again, his hand unconsciously finding purchase on her shoulder.  
She realizes the compromising position she put them in when she looks up, her face level with his crotch, her hand precariously close to where she detects a slight bulge in his pants.

„Oh“, she breathes against the whisky spill on his brown corduroys and she feels his thigh tremble under her hand in reaction. She suddenly feels scandalous and brazen, a want welling up inside her she’d believed long lost.

„Roger,“ she calls calmly, waiting, not moving an inch until he meets her eyes. The green Highland hills she’s admired before have darkened into a stormy sea, his breathing shallow and quick. „Do you want me to take care of this?“ she asks when she knows she has his full attention, when she’s sure he can’t misunderstand her meaning.

She feels unexpectedly calm. There’s a brief moment of wonder, and she sees herself like a picture in a book, an image on TV, kneeling there in front of this gorgeous, much younger lad, propositioning him.

_Is that really me? When did I get so daring?_

She watches his face closely, his emotions now much more visibly displayed than before, fighting right under the surface of his flushed cheeks and the churning ocean of his eyes.  
She sees the exact moment he comes to a decision, his look piercing through her, daring her to waver and relieved when she doesn’t. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders when he finally answers, his voice rough with uncertainty and need.

„I... Yes. Please.“

The sound of it goes straight to her core, arousal flaring heavily like she hasn’t felt in a long time and again, her brain wastes another moment wondering about Scottish men before she focuses on the young man in front of her, the heavy feel of his hand on her shoulder, the now prominent bulge in his pants.

Her fingers go to work on opening his belt and fly slowly, the outward calm she’s displaying still a source of wonder to her but she wants to keep it up. It’s evident he likes her like this; he likes her certainty, her forwardness; her slow pace and the anticipation it brings with.

He breathes in sharply when she takes him out of his pants, her grip featherlight, her breath ghosting over his tip. His cock matches him perfectly, just big enough with a slight curve to the left and dark and velvety hard for her.

_Maybe you’re not an old maid yet, Beauchamp._

She carefully runs a finger up and down his shaft, barely applying any pressure, grazing his balls with her knuckles as if on accident on each downstroke.

She watches intently, fascinated by the slight twitch of his cock, the strong lines of his thighs, the firm shape of his lower stomach, partially hidden between the tails of his shirt.

_God, it’s been a while._

His hand squeezing her shoulder and the pleading „Claire,“ he grits out, jolts her out of her admiration and she takes him in her hand fully now, applying the pressure he so desperately seeks. She looks at him for a second, their eyes meeting, and she smiles teasingly, flicking out her tongue to taste the drop of precum at his tip.

He groans at the wet heat of her tongue, his hand going from her shoulder into her hair and he can’t help but buck his hips toward her, desperate for more.

It’s all a heady flurry from there, his little sounds and movements spurring her on and making her stomach coil deliciously.  
The heavy, salty slide of him against her tongue stirring in her a feeling of exhilarating power and nearness she wasn’t sure she’d feel again. The ache in her knees against the hardwood floor, the tug of his hand in her hair - pleasant reminders that she is alive, that she is capable of experiencing real connections, of _feeling_. Despite her age, despite her history, she is capable of making those connections, of reaching out to someone else, of lighting a fire and burning with it.

And bloody hell, she is burning, Roger’s need igniting a spark in her she’d believed long dead, and when he tugs her up and kisses her, tasting himself on her tongue she can’t wait to feel him all over her, big hands on her pale skin again.

He guides her back to the couch, his mouth never leaving hers and god, she really has missed this. She’s nearly forgotten what it’s like, to feel a man’s desire for her, to really taste it on his tongue, to read it in the morse code of his trembling fingers on her thighs, edging beneath the seam of her skirt and up, up, up.

He burrows his head in the crook of her shoulder when his strong fingers finally conquer all her layers and find her wet center and the sound he groans into her nearly undoes her. She needs him, needs to feel all of him and she makes quick work of her own skirt and underwear while he’s watching her (and fumbling in his wallet for a condom), gaze filled with wonder and what she’s now sure is undisguised lust.

„Don’t be gentle, Roger,“ she tells him, and sees a wild light flaring in his eyes just before he takes her whole; deep and fast and unbearingly real. It’s a fierce pleasure seeping through her bones, filling her up with heat and simmering just below her skin. When it erupts, she takes him with her into the abyss. He collapses on top of her and she weaves her hand through his brown locks, rhythmically stroking until their joined breathing calms down.

The giggle starts building in her chest and the vibration shakes them before the sound escapes her mouth. He props himself up and gives her a guarded smile.  
„What?“ he asks.

She shakes her head, still laughing and his smile grows wider, losing a little of its uncertainty.

„It’s just... I haven’t been this reckless in a really long time.“


End file.
